


Musketeers Whumptober 2020

by rthecynic



Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Aramis Whump, Athos Whump, Athos and his angst, I'll add more tags as i go, Physical Torture, Psychological Torture, Whump, Whumptober 2020, alcohol as an unhealthy coping mechanism, alcohol cw, blood cw, d'Artagnan Whump, fire cw, guns cw, hanging cw, mentions of torture, very slight portamis moments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:21:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26759401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rthecynic/pseuds/rthecynic
Summary: Musketeers shorts for Whumptober!Day 1 - Hanging; On the morning of his wife's execution, Athos struggles to sort out his feelings.Day 2 - Pick who dies; When the boys find themselves running out of options, they have to make a tough decision.Day 3 - Held at gunpoint; Not long after joining the Musketeers, D'Artagnan finds himself in a spot of bother.Day 4 - Collapsed building; Things go wrong when Aramis tries to be a hero.Day 5 - Rescue; Ten years after the events of The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan finds himself in trouble in a foreign land without his friends by his side (bookverse)Day 6 - "Stop, please!"; Porthos' captors find a foolproof way to make him cooperate.Day 7 - Support; When Athos is suffering from a bout of melancholy, he can always rely on his friends to be there for him.Day 8 - Abandoned; Ever since Savoy, Aramis has feared being abandoned again.
Comments: 59
Kudos: 78
Collections: The Musketeers Whumptober





	1. Day 1 - Hanging

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so I'm finally trying to participate in Whumptober, and I'm going to do my best to keep up. I think these will all be one-shots, and I never got the chance to get a head start, so we'll see how it goes!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the morning of his wife's execution, Athos struggles to sort out his feelings.

She is sentenced to hang today. 

Even though you gave the order, you still feel like it can’t be real. Your wife, the only woman you’ve ever loved, will hang today. 

You dread the moment the sky begins to lighten, for that will mean that the sun is near. When the sun is near, you will have to face the truth. Your brother is dead; murdered by the fair hand of the woman you believed to be all that was good and true in this world. She has betrayed you, and she has taken away the little brother who you always swore to protect.

For this, she must die.

But your heart still aches with every beat. 

She begged you for clemency, you would not give it. She begged you to listen, but you would not hear her. She has broken your trust now, and shattered your heart. Why should you give in to her pathetic pleas? You know she is guilty; you saw the knife in her hand, the blood on her unblemished skin. There is nothing she can say that will take away what she has done.

Yet you still love her.

For three nights now, you have yearned for her. For three nights, your bed has felt too cold. Too large. Your thoughts have been filled with her, weeping in her confinement, and you have each night almost given in. You have almost gone to her and taken her in your arms, soothed her and forgiven her, brought her back to your bed and back into your heart. 

But you can’t. 

You must be strong. The crime she has committed is too serious to be forgotten. Could you truly continue living your life with her, knowing what she has done? No; you know this must be done. You also know that allowing yourself to see her, to speak with her, will soften your heart and you will relent. She has always had a way of making you weak. She once teased that you would give her the moon and all the stars in the sky if she asked for them, and you know that every word was true. She would have wanted for nothing, for you would have given her the world. 

Except for this one thing you cannot give.

The deep blackness of the sky has lightened to a soft purple hue, and you know the dawn is approaching. You rise, dress in a simple riding uniform, go down to the kitchen. Your stomach churns; you know any food you eat will immediately make its reappearance. Instead, you opt for liquid courage; a fine Anjou wine. It settles your nerves but a little, so you take a little more. It feels warm in your belly and it comforts you somewhat. One more drink, that’s all you need. Or perhaps another after that. 

When you finally cast your gaze upon the bottle once more, you see that it is almost empty.

“Monsieur le Comte?”

You look up; Remi has come to fetch you.

“Everything is ready?”

“Aye, Monsieur.”

You nod and step out into the crisp morning air. A horse is prepared for you, and you mount it with ease. Any man who witnessed you would believe you stoic, perhaps even heartless, with your noble bearing and neutral countenance. 

No man can see the turmoil of your mind.

It doesn’t take long to reach the place where it is too be done. She is already there, stood atop a cart, her hands bound behind her. Even on the morning of her demise, she is beautiful. She is composed and strong, just as she always has been. It is something you have always loved about her. She refuses to look at you, at anyone. She merely stares ahead at the horizon, awaiting the first rays of dawn and the moment of her death. You are hardly aware of your hand reaching to clasp the locket that sits around your neck, the locket with the forget-me-nots. 

You will never forget; of that you can be sure. 

Remi places the noose around her neck, and you see her sharp intake of breath. It is the only sign of anything akin to fear that she shows. You begin to feel the pounding of your heart in your chest, to feel the ice-cold dread pulsing through your veins. Her lips are moving in silent prayer, and you feel the urge to close your eyes. You can’t watch this, for surely it will be too much to bear.

But you must.

You keep your gaze fixed upon her, keep your face blank. She finally meets your eyes.

“Olivier,” she whispers.

The cart is moved away, and you watch her fall. Your heart seems to stop for a moment, and your throat seems to tighten. No more. You can’t take it. 

You turn your horse and you ride away, not even sparing a glance behind you. A single tear slides down your cheek, but you fight to restrain it. You can’t be seen as regretting such a decision. Do you regret it? You had been so certain that it was the right choice, the only choice, and yet your heart is aching even worse than it did when you found Thomas a mere three nights ago. 

You don’t stop when you reach the house. In fact, you don’t stop until you are free of your estate. Once you are far enough from your lands to not be recognised, you dismount and collapse to your knees. One broken sob follows another as you crouch on all fours in the grass, finally allowing your tears to run freely. Every time you close your eyes, you see her, swinging from a rope in the breeze. You want to be sick, but nothing comes. Eventually, you roll onto your back and just stare up at the sky.

“Dear God… What have I done…?”

You can’t go back now; you know your home will be filled with poisoned memories and phantoms of those you once loved. It would be best that you just disappear; go to Paris and vanish into the masses. You have the clothes on your back and a little money in your purse. You could just keep riding and never look back. You could change your name and try to forget.

Once again, your fingers clasp the locket around your neck.

No; you will never forget. No matter what you do, no matter where you go, your demons will always follow you. It is what you deserve. You know in your heart that she will be there in your dreams, and that your life will be filled with sorrow now that she is gone from it. All of the life and joy and warmth she brought you has been extinguished, and you have no-one to blame but yourself.

You rise to your feet, mount your horse. You will go to Paris; you will change your identity and you will try to build a new life for yourself. You will try to pursue noble causes, anything to fill the void that now exists inside of you. Perhaps your old friend Monsieur de Treville will be able to offer you a place in his Musketeers. Perhaps such a pursuit will kill you; you’re not even sure that you care. At least it will be a death worth dying. And if you live long, then that will be your punishment for the sins you have committed.

However, despite all the uncertainty, you can be sure of three things: you will never forgive, you will never forget, and you will never love again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One down, thirty to go! Thanks for reading ^-^
> 
> I'm capitaineathos on tumblr for Musketeers content, or rthecynic on main. Come and say hi! :)  
> Prompts always welcome!


	2. Day 2 - Pick who dies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the boys find themselves running out of options, they have to make a difficult decision.

Crouched in the underbrush, Athos turned to glance at his three companions. All four men were exhausted, and it showed. Aramis was certainly more quiet than usual, and the sparkle was gone from his eyes. Porthos’ normally strong and sturdy form was more sluggish, slower to act, and D’Artagnan’s breaths were coming in laboured gasps such as his friends had never heard before. Athos was sure that he probably seemed like his usual charming self to the other men, but he could feel the ache in his bones and the heaviness of his limbs. Despite the seemingly endless forest of trees that surrounded them, Athos knew that it couldn’t be more than a few miles to the next village, where they’d be able to find fresh mounts to carry them to Paris.

The problem? The band of mercenaries who had followed them from Rouen. Their horses had travelled a much shorter distance than those of the four Musketeers, and so were in a much better state. Even though Athos had managed to put some distance between them by straying from the forest path, he knew that it was only a matter of time before they were found.

“We can’t outrun them…” he found himself saying. “The horses are too fatigued. Even if they could carry us as far as the next inn, it wouldn’t be fast enough.”

“Well, we can’t stay here!” Porthos protested. “We’re sitting ducks! Surely our only choice is to carry on and…”

Athos shook his head.

“No… We need a plan. If we carry on like this, we’re all dead.”

“So what do you suggest?”

Silence hung between the four men for a moment before Aramis spoke up. His voice was quiet, almost nervous, and so unlike his usual joviality. 

“I could stay here, hold them off for a time… If I can find some sort of cover, I can probably take a few of them out with the pistols before they reach me…”

“No!” Porthos interrupted, perhaps a little too harshly. “There’s no way in hell I’m letting you stay behind! Aramis, it’s practically suicide!”

“I know, but…”

“Then I’ll do it! I’m the strongest and I could probably hold them off for longer. Hopefully it’ll be enough time for you to reach the village.”

Aramis shook his head, trying to keep the tears from his eyes. 

“No, Porthos, please…”

“That’s enough, both of you!” Athos demanded. “I’ll hear no more of it. If anyone is staying behind, it should be me. I’m the Captain’s right hand, and so I’m responsible for the safety of my men.”

D’Artagnan, for his part, had watched this conversation in mortified silence, unable to interrupt at the first mention of this insanity as his brain seemed to fail to communicate with his tongue. Now, however, he finally found his voice, though it came out as more of a high-pitched squeak than he would have liked.

“Do you mean to say that our only chance is to allow one of us to die?!”

Three pairs of eyes turned to him; three heads nodded solemnly in unison.

“We’ll never make it if we continue on like this,” Athos tried to explain. “Sometimes we must do what is necessary for the greater good.”

“T-Then…” D’Artagnan sputtered. “Then I’ll do it! I’m good with a sword and…!”

Once again, his three companions moved in unison, this time shaking their heads and crying out as one;

“No!”

“You are young, D’Artagnan, and you have so much more life to live!” Aramis told him.

“You speak as if you are all far on in years and knocking at death’s door!”

Athos couldn’t help but let out a dry chuckle.

“The situation may not be quite so dire as that, but it is true that you are the youngest of us. Doesn’t it make sense that we would wish to protect you?”

“Then… Then we make a stand! All of us, together!”

Porthos placed a hand on D’Artagnan’s shoulder and gave it a sympathetic squeeze.

“Don’t forget that we have a mission to complete. If we don’t get that letter to the king…”

The youngest Musketeer sighed; he knew that what Porthos said was true. It was imperative that they deliver their message to the king before war was declared with Spain. This offer of peace that D’Artagnan carried in his jacket was the only way to stop it.

“But…”

A distant thunder of hooves and raised voices silenced D’Artagnan, who immediately turned to Athos for comfort and guidance.

“Go!” the eldest Musketeer hissed. “Go now! You must be gone from here before they arrive. I’ll be right behind you.”

It was a blatant lie and D’Artagnan knew it. They all did. Yet it gave him just enough of a push to rise to his feet and mount his horse. 

“Athos, I…”

“Go!”

Without so much as a goodbye, Athos turned away from his young protegé, unable to watch as he rode away into the trees. His heart ached to know that it would be his last time seeing the boy, but he knew that he could die in peace knowing that D’Artagnan would be safe.

In an effort to distract himself from such thoughts, he turned his attention to his remaining two companions.

“You two should be leaving as well. They’ll surely be here any minute.”

Aramis smiled, and something of his usual cocky self had returned to it.

“You can’t seriously think that I would leave you behind, my friend?”

“Nor I,” Porthos grinned. “Let us be Inseparables in death as we were in life!”

“What of D’Artagnan? You would leave him alone?”

“Ah, he has his pretty Constance to return to,” Porthos winked. “He won’t be alone.”

“Besides,” Aramis added. “He is young. He will find happiness again, and hopefully he will consider us fondly in his remembrances.”

“We shall always be with him; in his heart and in his memories. We shall not leave him.”

Athos looked to Porthos, and then to Aramis, and slowly nodded.

“Very well then.”

He got to his feet, hand falling to the hilt of his sword. His two companions did the same as ten men on horseback advanced into the clearing.

“All for one?” Athos murmured, pulling his blade free and raising it high in the air. Instantly, two more blades joined it, and he was met with a resounding cry from his two dearest friends;

“And one for all!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm basically posting this just a few hours after the first one, but it's 2nd October already for me (I only just managed to get day 1 up on time, oops!), so here you go. I really loved this prompt, but it turned out pretty different to my initial thoughts on it. This idea just kinda came to me after some conversation with ahandsomebabe and I just ran with it. I hope it was as enjoyable to read as it was for me to write!
> 
> And I swear they won't all be completely depressing! I do love h/c as well as angst, so I'll be trying to get some more of that in future days.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading! It means a lot! I'm capitaineathos on tumblr, come say hi! Prompts always welcome :)


	3. Day 3 - Held at gunpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not long after joining the Musketeers, D'Artagnan finds himself in a spot of bother.

D’Artagnan screwed up his eyes against the harsh sunlight as the blindfold was whipped away from his face. He’d lost count of the days that he’d been surrounded by darkness, the stillness only interrupted by the occasional arrival of food or water. Honestly, he was surprised by how little he’d been bothered by his captors; not once did they ask him questions, and though he had angry welts on his wrists from the shackles that had restrained him he was otherwise unharmed. He almost felt that the lack of activity from his hidden enemy was more unnerving than anything they could have done to him; lost in time, waiting for something to finally happen. But he’d finally accepted that they didn’t seem to want to harm him. In fact, they seemed to be rather concerned with keeping him alive and well.  
As he took in his surroundings, he could finally make a guess as to why.

“D’Artagnan! Are you hurt?”

Across the ruined courtyard, Athos stood, a man bound by his side. D’Artagnan recognised him instantly; a villain they had recently arrested after an attempted assassination of the king. Favreaux, he was sure was his name.

“Athos, what the hell are you doing?!” he cried out, unable to hold his tongue. This man was dangerous. Why the hell had Athos brought him here?

Athos held up a hand, a gesture intended to signal the Gascon to silence himself, but D’Artagnan just shook his head.

“This man tried to kill the king! What you do is treason! He should be in the Bastille where he belongs!” 

Something hard connected with the back of his head and he dropped to his knees, the world spinning around him. His arms bound tightly behind his back, they were unable to catch him as the ground came up to meet him and his face hit the dusty ground.

“Enough!”

D’Artagnan shuddered as he recognised the venom in Athos’ tone. It was obvious to him that, though the older Musketeer still sounded cold and matter of fact, he was barely managing to keep his composure.

“Our deal was that the boy would be returned to me unharmed!”

D’Artagnan felt tight fingers fist in his hair and pull him back to his feet, the cold steel of a pistol press against his temple. 

“Give me the boy and I’ll release your brother!”

D’Artagnan felt more than heard the rumble of laughter that his captor emitted at Athos’ demand.

“You think I am such a fool, Musketeer? My brother first!”

“I think I am a more honourable man than you, Monsieur. I have no guarantee that you will not kill him as soon as I release my prisoner to you.”

“You have my word.”

“Forgive me if I do not find that particularly convincing.”

D’Artagnan heard the hammer cock on the pistol and instinctively closed his eyes. Surely Athos could not allow this exchange to continue? 

“Don’t listen to him Athos! You have to…!”

A sharp tug on his hair pulled D’Artagnan’s head back so that his throat was too tight to allow sound to pass.

“Shut up or I’ll put a bullet in your brain right here and now!”

Athos didn’t miss a beat.

“We release them at the same time. Then it is a fair exchange.”

Another laugh and D’Artagnan found his hair released and his captor giving him a rough shove forward.

“Very well.”

The barrel of the pistol pressed into the small of the youngest Musketeer’s back.

“Walk!”

D’Artagnan found himself obeying, feet stumbling forward in uneven steps. He could see Favreaux moving in the opposite direction, towards his brother, shuffling forward in an attempt to reach safety.  
He saw the tiniest twitch at the corner of Athos’ lips just before he heard the shot. 

It all happened so quickly then. Before he even knew what was happening, he was on the ground, Athos on top of him, and the sound of gunshots was ringing in his ears. The barrage only lasted a few moments, and then all was silent again. As D’Artagnan glanced around at the ruins that surrounded them, he could see the flash of blue cloaks as the band of Musketeers began to descend. Aramis grinned at him from atop a crumbling parapet, pistol still smoking in his hand.

“Hello D’Artagnan! You surely didn’t think we’d forgotten about you?”

His attention was brought back to Athos as the older Musketeer rolled off of him and stood, dusting off his uniform. Strong hands grabbed him under the arms and hoisted him to his feet. 

“We would never!” a voice chuckled, and D’Artagnan turned his head to see that Porthos was the one who now held him upright.

“Oh, thank God!” D’Artagnan breathed. “I thought…”

“Come now, D’Artagnan,” Athos smiled. “Don’t you know that we always have a plan?”

As he spoke, Athos retrieved his main gauche and cut through the bindings on D’Artagnan’s wrists. The young man let out a soft groan as blood began to flow back into his hands and the welts on his wrists began to throb painfully. 

Athos frowned when he saw the welts, then began to examine D’Artagnan’s head for signs of injury caused by the blow from the pistol.

“Athos, I’m fine!”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Aramis quipped as he approached the small group. “For one thing, those welts look nasty. I’ll need to get them cleaned up as soon as possible. And any blows to the head must be investigated. Athos, any sign of blood or swelling?”

Athos grunted a negative.

“Boy’s a lucky little sod,” he commented dryly. 

Aramis grinned and clapped a hand on D’Artagnan’s shoulder.

“Don’t let Athos fool you though! He’s been really worried about you.”

“Have not…” Athos muttered, but found himself with an armful of Gascon anyway.

“Thank you, Athos… Thank you all of you… For coming to save me…”

Athos awkwardly patted D’Artagnan’s back as he held him. 

“It was nothing really…”

“It’s what we do,” Porthos added with a wink. “All for one, right? We never leave a comrade behind, much less a friend.”

D’Artagnan smiled. These men were much more than brothers in arms; they were a family, and he was so grateful to be a part of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made it just in time, whew! (It's 23:59 here on 3rd October!)
> 
> Thanks for reading! It means a lot :)  
> I'm capitaineathos on tumblr, come say hi :)  
> Prompts always welcome!


	4. Day 4 - Collapsed building

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go wrong when Aramis tries to be a hero.

When Aramis opened his eyes, the only thing he was aware of was pain. His head throbbed, his lungs burned, every breath he took was a struggle against a heavy weight on his chest. It was hot… Why was it so hot…? The last thing he remembered…

The fire.

Of course, there had been a fire. He’d been on his way home when he’d spotted it, when he’d heard the child screaming from the attic window. He’d barely spared a glance toward the frantic mother in the street before making the decision to go inside. He’d found the child, carried her downstairs, handed her to her mother through the kitchen window. He’d tried to climb out himself, but there had been a loud sound from behind him and everything had gone black…

He cursed softly to himself and fought to lift his head, managing to do so just enough to catch a glimpse of the pile of rubble that sat atop his chest. Well, that explained why every breath felt like such an exertion, strained even further by the hot and foul air that he was gasping into his lungs. 

He tried to wriggle free of some of the rubble, but he was pinned so completely that he was unable to move. With his arms trapped, he couldn’t try to move any of the debris aside, and his legs…

Oh God, he couldn’t feel his legs. 

With pain radiating from everywhere else, it had taken him some time to realise that he couldn’t feel his legs at all. From the waist down, there was just numbness, and for a moment he doubted that the appendages were even there at all. 

A sharp shock of panic radiated through his mind. He’d seen men lose feeling in their legs before, men who’d never walked again. What if that was to be his fate? Lively and adventurous as he was, it would surely drive him crazy to be left confined to a bed. Not to mention the fact that his friends would likely see him as something to be pitied, if they even continued to visit him at all.

Then again, what did the state of his legs matter if he wasn’t alive to use them?

He had no time to worry about scenarios that had not yet come to pass. It was more important to consider the here and now. If he wanted to survive this, he had to fight, and he had to hope that his will to live was strong enough to keep him conscious until someone reached him. He knew it would be so easy to give in to the warm embrace of darkness, to sleep and allow the pain to disappear, but still he fought, refusing to succumb. How could he? If he closed his eyes, he could see the faces of his dear friends: Athos, lost to his bottles in an attempt to subdue his grief, D’Artagnan, so young and not yet hardened to loss, weeping and angry at the world, Porthos, heartbroken and listless as he tried to continue without the other half of his soul. How could Aramis do anything other than fight to the very last breath, if it allowed him even the briefest chance of returning to them?

“H-Help…” he called out weakly. “H-Help…! Can anyone hear me…?”

A violent cough wracked through his body, setting his lungs ablaze. Still, he called.

“H-Hello? I-I’m here… I need help…!”

His cries were only answered by the crackling of the flames that surrounded him.

Aramis finally allowed his head to collapse back to the ground and stared up at the warped building above him. Flickers of flame danced against a collapsed wooden rafter, a bright red glow lit up the darkness of the wreckage. 

“Please God…” the Musketeer whispered softly, fingers itching to clutch his rosary. “Please don’t let me die here… I’m not ready… I’m not ready to come home to You… I still have so much to do here…”

Another violent cough interrupted him, sending a painful spasm through his chest. Each breath was becoming more difficult than the last, and he was quickly reduced to gasping breaths grabbed in the brief intervals between fits of coughing. Still he fought to remain conscious, but his eyelids felt heavy and his mind was foggy. He felt so weak. If he could just rest a moment…

A loud scraping of stone caught his attention and pulled him back to alertness. Small pockets of sunlight began to pierce through the reddish hues and Aramis felt a small glimmer of hope in his chest.

“H-Hello…? Help! I-I’m trapped!”

Even as his own coughs echoed in his ears, he could hear the familiar voice that called back to him.

“Hold on Aramis! I’m coming!”

Despite the dire nature of his situation, Aramis felt a smile tugging at his lips. Porthos was coming. If Porthos was coming, everything would surely be alright.

“Aramis?!” The normally jovial voice sounded desperate as it called out again. “Keep talking to me Aramis!”

“I can hear you…” Aramis replied, his voice sounding weak to his own ears. “I’m never trying to be a hero ever again…”

A strained laugh was his first response. 

“I’ll hold you to that. Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to play with fire?”

“There was a child…”

As he spoke, a large gap appeared in the debris above him and a rush of fresh air hit his face and filled his lungs. After the putrid smoke of his concrete prison, it was painful to breathe in the cool evening air, but it was such a relief that Aramis didn’t care. 

And when Porthos’ face appeared, it became the only thing that mattered. 

He was barely aware of the hands under his arms, dragging him free of the rubble that had pinned him down. Nor was he aware of the rain on his face, or the chill in his bones as he was suddenly exposed to the cold. All he was aware of was the strength of Porthos’ arms beneath him and the familiar comfort of his scent. As his eyelids began to flutter, Porthos pressed his lips to his forehead.

“Rest now, Aramis. You’re safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, it means a lot! :)
> 
> I'm capitaineathos on tumblr, come say hi! Prompts always welcome :)


	5. Day 5 - Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years after the events of The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan finds himself in trouble in a foreign land without his friends by his side. Bookverse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some mentions of torture in this one! I don't think it's anything overly graphic, but there are mentions of different torture methods.

In short, D’Artagnan knew he was screwed. 

He’d truly believed that his days of such misfortune were over, having been captain of the Musketeer regiment for almost ten years now, an experienced soldier and a favourite of the boy king, Louis XIV. That was why he had been entrusted with delivering a secret treaty to Spain, under the direction of the queen regent and with explicit instructions to keep his knowledge from Cardinal Mazarin. The war had been long, with devastating losses on both sides. The king and his mother desired an end to the fighting, but it seemed that the Cardinal would hear none of it. That was why D’Artagnan’s mission had been so important; if he’d managed to succeed, he could have brought peace to the feuding nations.

As it turned out, there had been a traitor among them, and D’Artagnan had led his men into an ambush. There had been heavy casualties among the Musketeers, though several of them had been able to flee. D’Artagnan, ready to fight to the last breath, had been wounded and captured. Despite his insistence that his mission was one of peace, he was not to be believed. It seemed that the traitor, an agent of Cardinal Mazarin who had been sent to the Spanish court as a double agent, had sent prior warning that a rogue band of Musketeers intended to use the premise of peace to get close to the king of Spain and assassinate him. 

Imprisoned behind enemy lines, D’Artagnan’s days had blended into nothing but darkness and pain. He had mostly been kept shackled in a dark, damp dungeon, but he would occasionally be taken to a chamber lit by the reddish glow of flickering torchlight. In that chamber, he would be questioned. As he had no information to give them, no confession of treason, the conclusion was obvious. Over the course of his imprisonment, he had felt the sting of the lash until blood ran down his back, had been left suspended by his wrists for what felt like hours, only released when the sweet embrace of unconsciousness had finally claimed him. His thumbs had been crushed and his head had been held underwater for so long he thought he might drown. 

Yet he still said nothing. There was nothing to say. He was no assassin, and he would not scar his honour by claiming to be so. 

He was so weak now; he truly didn’t think he could survive another session in the chamber. His captors knew it too, he was sure. He’d heard them talking in hushed tones as they brought him back to his cell after the last time, debating whether to keep trying for a confession or whether to send for the executioner and make an example of him. 

D’Artagnan, for his part, preferred the latter. He’d been in serious situations before, perhaps just as dire, but he’d never faced them alone. Somehow, when he’d been with his friends, he had never felt so hopeless.

God, had it really been ten years since he’d seen them? Ten years since Athos had retired to his country estate, since Porthos had married his widow and succeeded to a barony, since Aramis had retired to the monastery at Herblay. How had they grown so far apart, when once they were so close? How had their paths diverged so far as to never cross again? D’Artagnan had always felt that something was missing inside of him since the day of their parting, but it had grown into a desperate pain since his capture. If he were to die, he wanted to see his friends again. He wanted to say goodbye, to thank them for everything they taught him and for the love they perhaps still shared. He didn’t want to die knowing that they were unaware of his fate.

Perhaps, if by some miracle he survived this, he would go to them. He would visit them, and he would hope that they still loved him as he had always loved them.

The door of his cell creaked loudly as it swung open, causing the Musketeer to slowly raise his head, gazing up at the familiar face of one of his jailers through his lashes.

“Back so soon?” he croaked, smiling wryly. “I don’t think I feel like playing today.”

His captor grunted and gestured to someone behind him; a monk with his cowled hood hiding his face from view.

“We thought you might desire a priest,” the Spaniard huffed. “By the order of the king, you die in the morning.”

Far from the fear that he had expected, D’Artagnan merely felt a sort of inner peace at the news. He kept his gaze fixed on the Spaniard as he left the cell and locked the door behind him, ignoring the priest as he came to kneel by his side.

“Do not fear, my son,” the priest murmured softly. “Soon, you shall be free of this prison and under the care of one who loves you.”

D’Artagnan slowly turned towards the priest, a clever witticism on the tip of tongue, but it died on his lips as he recognised the eyes that met his. 

Before he could say anything, Aramis raised a finger to his lips. The man had barely changed; though not quite so youthful as before, he was still handsome, and a mischievous light still danced in his eyes. 

“God will grant you salvation, young one,” Aramis teased, knowing full well that the young man he had once known was now a hardened soldier of almost thirty years. “But sometimes he works in ways that we least suspect.”

D’Artagnan still stared at him, unable to say a word, barely even able to think. Why was Aramis here? Surely it couldn’t be mere coincidence? Yet how could it be anything else? 

“Y-You came here alone, father?” he whispered. “I appreciate that they have taken the time to find me a French priest, but is it not a dangerous journey to make alone? Especially during these troubled times.”

“They did not send for me,” the priest winked. “I was… passing through on a matter of papal urgency, and I offered my services when I heard of the French prisoner due to die. I thought it would be a small comfort to you.” At this, Aramis smiled and winked again, which D’Artagnan took as a signal of the insincerity of his story. “However, to answer your question, I do not find myself unaccompanied. I did arrange an escort of two rather distinguished gentlemen to aid me in my mission.”

D’Artagnan was sure his heart skipped a beat. Did Aramis mean that Athos and Porthos were here too? But how? Why?

Aramis must have noticed the confusion on his face because he spoke again.

“Everything will become clear in time, my child. Simply have faith and hold on to what your heart has always truly believed.”

D’Artagnan nodded. Despite the time that had passed, he still believed in his friends. He still believed in the bond that they had formed and in their creed of “all for one and one for all”. Somehow, they were here, and he knew that they would not let him down.

~*~*~*~*~

Aramis stayed with him that night, reciting prayers and giving whatever minor care he could to the younger man’s wounds. It was difficult to maintain the distance between them, to pretend that the priest was not one of his dearest friends come back to save him, but D’Artagnan knew that he must. If he showed even the slightest sign of familiarity, the plan would be ruined, and Aramis would be beside him on the scaffold. So D’Artagnan had to content himself with the quiet comfort of Aramis’ gentle voice and wait for the sun to rise.

~*~*~*~*~

He supposed he must have dozed off at some point, as the arrival of the guards took him by such surprise and jerked him back to a state of alertness. He barely had a moment to get his bearings before he was pulled roughly to his feet, failing to suppress a cry of pain as his abused arms were pulled behind his back and tied tightly. His legs were weak beneath him, and the guards had to half drag, half carry him out to the waiting cart. The only thing keeping him grounded was the constant presence of Aramis by his side. He wasn’t alone. His friends were here. His friends would surely think of something.

The Musketeer stumbled as he was shoved onto the cart, hands secured to the front so that he could not escape. Aramis climbed up beside him, bible in one hand and crucifix in the other, still muttering Latin prayers and blessing D’Artagnan with the sign of the cross. One of the guards who had fetched him turned to the other and spoke in a familiar tone. 

“I’ll take the prisoner to the square. The cart only needs one of us, so you may take your leave.”

He then turned to the escort of four guards who would accompany the cart to its destination.

“When you are ready, gentlemen.”

Once again, D’Artagnan could barely contain the hope that rose in his chest. The familiar voice of the guard, he would know it anywhere. The voice of his dearest friend, the man who was almost a father.

Athos barely spared a glance at D’Artagnan as he took the horse’s reins and began to guide it, slowly pulling the cart along towards the square. Two guards rode in front of them, and two behind. The journey would be short, but D’Artagnan knew it wouldn’t matter. Something told him that he would never make it to the scaffold.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he heard the shot. One of the horses in front of them reared up on its hind legs, throwing its wounded rider to the ground. As it did, Athos whipped out his pistol and pulled the trigger, leaving another of the guards with a hole in the middle of his skull. 

In the commotion, Aramis retrieved a dagger from inside his bible and sliced through the ropes around D’Artagnan’s wrists.

“Come on! Porthos has a carriage waiting!”

With D’Artagnan’s arm around his shoulder so that he could offer support, Aramis pulled him down from the cart and tugged him around a corner, where Porthos was standing reloading his pistol.

“Go! The carriage is at the end of the street. Athos and I will catch up!”

D’Artagnan was vaguely aware of the sound of approaching hooves as Aramis dragged him towards their escape. More soldiers? 

“Athos…” he mumbled, tugging weakly back towards his comrades. “Porthos…”

“They’ll be fine!” Aramis insisted as he shoved D’Artagnan into the safety of the carriage. “But we need to get you out of Spain. Bazin, go!” 

As he called out to his servant, Aramis pounded twice on the roof and the carriage jolted into motion. D’Artagnan collapsed back against the – surprisingly comfortable – cushions, the steady rocking of the vehicle causing his eyelids to start to droop.

“Rest, Gascon,” Aramis told him. “I doubt you have done so properly in quite some time. You are safe now, and in a few days’ time we will be back in France.”

D’Artagnan thought about protesting, but he couldn’t find the energy. He truly was exhausted, and surely it wouldn’t be too bad to allow himself to rest… 

~*~*~*~*~

The journey, almost three weeks in length, passed agonisingly slowly. Athos and Porthos, true to their word, caught up with the carriage before the sun had disappeared that first day, and now rode alongside. D’Artagnan’s three friends had taken turns sitting inside the carriage with him, but the Gascon barely remembered the first week or so of his freedom, considering that he had slept for much of it. Eating had been difficult at first, considering how little he’d been fed during his captivity, but his friends had encouraged him to try and his appetite began to return after the first few days. Aramis had tended to his wounds, bathing them and changing the dressings regularly and remaining vigilant for any signs of infection. Miraculously, D’Artagnan continued to grow stronger and did not contract any infection from his multiple injuries.

However, it wasn’t until the start of the third week that he finally felt strong enough to talk about anything more than trivialities. He had been content to listen to his friends’ anecdotes and tales of their lives from the past ten years, and he had told them a little of his. But a question still burned in his mind, though he never voiced it. At least, not at first. 

They had stopped at a tavern for the night and were partaking in a drink by the fire when D’Artagnan finally blurted it out.

“How did you know to come and rescue me?”

Athos, Porthos and Aramis all looked at each other then, and Athos spoke.

“Some of your troops returned to Paris and reported the ambush to the king and the queen regent. His Majesty was rather distraught as I heard it.”

“He summoned the three of us to court,” Porthos continued. “When he explained the situation, I think we all knew that we had to be the ones to go to Spain and bring you home.”

“It’s been so long…” D’Artagnan whispered, causing the other three to glance at each other again.

“Too long,” Aramis finally agreed. “And I for one regret it.”

“As do I,” Porthos nodded. “I’ve missed all of you and spent many a lonely night wondering if any of you still thought of me.”

Aramis reached for Porthos’ hand then and gave it a soft squeeze. 

“What a waste of ten years,” Athos mused softly, sipping at his drink. “When this whole affair has shown us that fate will just push us back together.”

“Being together feels right!” D’Artagnan insisted. “You all feel it too, don’t you? Nothing was right when we were apart.”

“D’Artagnan, we all have separate lives now…”

“What do you have, Athos? A title that you never desired? A son who is studying away from home? Are you truly content to sit alone in that grand house of yours?” D’Artagnan asked, a desperate tone sneaking into his voice. “And you, Porthos? You spoke of your rich widow, now passed, and you, a lonely but rich gentleman. Are you happy in that life? And Aramis; a priest who craves adventure? Can any of you honestly say that you haven’t thought about how things could have been?”

“Could still be,” Porthos smiled, placing a hand on D’Artagnan’s shoulder. “The boy speaks sense, I say!” 

Aramis nodded, face heavy with contemplation.

“I suppose he does have a point… And I have missed our adventures together…”

“Athos?” D’Artagnan was practically pleading as he looked at the older man. “Athos, please… You chose to come for me, even after all these years. That must mean something!”

A slight smile graced Athos’ handsome features as he set his hand in the centre of the table.

“We all swore did we not, once upon a time, that we were brothers for life? All for one and one for all. Perhaps I have learned to ignore it over the years, but I have never forgotten. And I have never lost my fondness for any of you.”

Three more hands piled on top of Athos’, and bright smiles lit the faces of all four men. 

Finally, for the first time in ten years, the void in D’Artagnan’s chest seemed to be filled once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this got a lot longer than I'd intended, but I guess it just got away from me!
> 
> I tried to do a little bit of research in terms of journey times, so, just in case anyone is interested, the way I worked it out was;  
> Apparently a horse drawn carriage can travel at a rate of around 50km per day, and assuming D'Artagnan was held in Barcelona, one of the closest points, the distance between there and Paris is roughly 1038km. That works out at a journey of almost 21 days.  
> However, apparently mounted soldiers can travel at a rate of up to 100km per day, so Athos Porthos and Aramis will have moved much faster and reached D'Artagnan around 10 or 11 days after leaving Paris. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! It means a lot! 
> 
> I'm capitaineathos on tumblr, come say hi! Prompts always welcome :)


	6. Day 6 - "Stop, please!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' captors find a foolproof way to make him cooperate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so there's some torture in this one again, a bit more graphic than yesterday, so just to warn you!

“For the last time; I will never help you!”

Porthos grunted as the lash landed against his back once more. He’d lost count of the number of strokes, but there was no getting used to them; every one hurt just as much as the last. There was no preparing for the blow, the brief warning as the damned thing whistled through the air barely allowing time for his brain to recognise it before the pain exploded across his body. 

But he would never help these rebels. He didn’t believe that the people of the Court of Miracles deserved the persecution that they faced under the rule of Cardinal Richelieu, but for them to begin to band together in rebellion against the king? It could not be allowed to continue. Porthos was a loyal Musketeer, servant to the crown. So it was simply impossible for him to even entertain their demands; help to free an influential member of their group from the Bastille. The man was imprisoned by the order of King Louis, and Porthos had a duty to ensure that his incarceration was for as long as His Majesty’s pleasure allowed.

He waited for the next blow to come, but it never did. Instead, he found his shackles released from the hook above him, dropping his arms back down to rest at his waist. 

Porthos frowned. A glance around the faces of his captors showed a kind of sadistic glee in each of their eyes and it sent a shiver through the Musketeer. He had no idea what they had in store for him, but he was used to pain. He could handle it; he just had to stay strong.

The last thing he expected was to see two men manhandling Aramis into the room, his clothes torn and stained with blood and dirt.

“iSoltadme!” the younger Musketeer demanded, struggling furiously against the iron grip of his captors. “iNo me toquéis!”

“Aramis!” Porthos roared, trying to get to his friend, but finding himself held back by four men. “For God’s sake, let him go!”

Aramis slowly lifted his head, revealing a large gash on his forehead and a rather nasty looking black eye.

“Porthos…?” he breathed, doubling his efforts to free himself. “Porthos! We’ve been looking everywhere…!”

The leader of the rebel group looked between his two captives, a cruel smile curling up the corners of his lips.

“Secure him!” he commanded, gesturing towards Porthos. “We’ll see if we can get him to be more agreeable now.”

A cold dread settled in Porthos’ gut as he was secured against the wall, his chains allowing him only the slightest tugs of movement.

“Don’t touch him!”

The leader of the vile band laughed, an ugly and grating sound that made Porthos wince. 

“You are the one who wishes to be a priest?” he jeered, neglecting to respond to Porthos’ demand and instead crossing the room to where Aramis was held. He gripped the prisoner’s chin firmly between his fingers and forced their eyes to meet. “So, you must believe in the penance of suffering, no? Perhaps we can find a fitting penance for you.”

Aramis spat in his face.

“iVete al infierno!” he growled, tugging against the arms that held him, itching to swing a punch at his tormentor. 

The man simply wiped the saliva away from his eye and laughed.

Another gesture and a large wooden pallet was laid up against the wall across the room from Porthos, who could only watch in abject horror as Aramis was shoved against it, his two captors holding his arms out to the side, parallel with the floor, a clear mockery of a crucifix. 

The sound that Aramis emitted when the nail went through the palm of his left hand made Porthos want to vomit. The horrific scream wouldn’t stop ringing in his ears, even after Aramis had dissolved into pained sobs and unintelligible mutterings. 

It took Porthos a few moments to realise that he was sobbing too.

He was no longer aware of the fire that raged across his back, nor was he aware of the shackles tearing into the flesh of his wrists as he tugged violently against his restraints. All he could see was Aramis, and all he could feel was the frantic pounding of his heart.

The leader glanced back at him, flashing him a leering smile with too few teeth.

“Feel like cooperating yet?” he asked casually, at the same time as the second nail was driven into Aramis’ right palm, eliciting another howl from the afflicted man. 

“I-I…” Porthos began, his mouth dry, panic welling up inside of him. He had to put a stop to this. He had to save Aramis! But to betray his duty…

“Porthos, no!” Aramis managed to call out, unable to hide the pain in his voice, but countering it with his steely determination. “Whatever it is that they want, you can’t…!”

The younger man was cut off by a hard slap connecting with his cheek, causing him to let out a soft yelp of surprise.

“Shut up, Musketeer!” one of his captors growled, drawing a small blade from his belt and pressing it to Aramis’ cheek. A small bead of scarlet bloomed at its edge and rolled to his chin before dropping onto the floor.

“He bores me anyway,” the leader yawned, waving a dismissive hand. “Gag him.”

Aramis frantically turned his head from side to side but, pinned in place, he was unable to avoid the filthy rag that was stuffed into his mouth and held in place by another strip of material around his head.

“Stop it!” Porthos yelled, tugging forward as far as his chains would allow. “Leave him alone!”

“Only if you agree to my terms!” 

Aramis continued to shake his head, eyes pleading with Porthos to not give in to them. Not for his sake. 

But the pain that Porthos felt at seeing Aramis completely at an enemy’s mercy was almost unbearable. In many ways, it pained him much worse than the lash ever could, and he knew that their captors had recognised that. They were soldiers, trained to fight through physical pain and to never betray the crown. But Aramis was family, and Porthos had always found it difficult to ignore his heart. 

Besides, weren’t the Musketeers also supposed to be a unit loyal to their own brotherhood above all?

A low hissing sound drew him out of his thoughts and he could have sworn that he felt his heart stop beating and his blood run cold as he caught sight of the sizzling iron poker that was inching ever closer to Aramis’ cheek. The other man’s eyes were wide and terrified, fixed upon the red hot metal that was getting so close he could feel the heat radiating from it. He was trying to wriggle away from the approaching pain, but every movement, no matter how slight, sent pain radiating from his pinned hands through his entire body. A soft, frightened whimper escaped him and it broke Porthos’ heart.

“N-No, stop…!” he choked out, watching as the poker came close enough to light up Aramis’ face. “Stop, please!” His tone was pleading, desperate. Porthos didn’t think he’d ever lowered himself to begging for his own life, but he’d be damned if he didn’t beg for Aramis’. “I-I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t hurt him! Please, let him go…”

The leader gave him a satisfied smile and nodded once. The poker was dropped to the ground, fizzling as it touched the cold stone. 

“You can leave in the morning with Geroux,” Porthos was told. “Rest tonight, for your task is a difficult one.”

“And what of Aramis…?” the Musketeer whispered. Guilt tore at his heart, but he knew he would make the same choice all over again. As long as Aramis was safe, he could live with being branded a traitor.

“Our insurance policy,” one of the men by Aramis grinned. “You get him back when we get our man.”

Porthos bit down on his lip to keep from arguing. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t want to cause any uproar that might make them harm the other man further. 

“At least let me tend to him tonight?” he asked softly. “His wounds need to be seen to.”

The men glanced around at each other, then shrugged.

“I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm. Someone get him down from there!”

Aramis was only able to muster a soft groan of pain as the nails were removed from his hands and he collapsed into the arms of his two tormentors. Once Porthos had given in and the danger had passed, his adrenaline had quickly worn off and left him exhausted and in agony. He was barely aware of being dragged across the room and thrown into Porthos’ waiting arms, but the familiar presence of the other man grounded him somewhat. 

“iPuta mierda…!” he hissed as Porthos gently lowered them both to the floor and removed his gag. “It hurts…!”

“I know…” Porthos soothed gently. “I know… I’m so sorry, Aramis… But we’ll get you cleaned up and…”

“Y-You shouldn’t have agreed…”

“How could I possibly do anything else? Can you honestly tell me that you wouldn’t have done the same?”

Aramis was silent for a few moments, staring up into Porthos’ eyes, before slowly shaking his head.

“I’m too tired to argue…” he murmured, and Porthos knew that meant that the other Musketeer couldn’t deny that he would indeed have done the same thing to save a comrade.

“You can rest,” Porthos assured him, deciding that it might be kinder to wait until Aramis was no longer conscious before bathing his wounds. “I’ll be right here.”

Aramis managed a soft smile and reached a hand up to gently touch Porthos’ cheek. Porthos, for his part, returned the smile and turned his head to kiss the tip of the other man’s index finger.

“I’ll keep you safe.”

Aramis curled into his arms and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I want to thank scion-of-kings for all of their help with the Spanish used in this story! They gave me so much input on how to make him sound more natural and I'm really grateful :)
> 
> For anyone who would like a translation, the phrases used in this story were;
> 
> "Soltadme" - "Let me go"/"Let go of me"  
> "No me toquéis" - "Don't touch me"  
> "Vete al infierno" - "Go to hell"  
> "Puta mierda" - It's cursing, translating roughly to "fucking shit"
> 
> I've always headcanoned Aramis as having a Spanish background, so it was so great to get that across in this story!
> 
> Honestly, I've been a bit worried about this one because I felt so mean writing it, but I might try to write the next part to it for "broken trust" later in the challenge. Or make it into a different story. Depends if anyone wants it to be finished ^-^"
> 
> And once again, thanks for reading! It honestly means so much to me :)
> 
> I'm capitaineathos on tumblr, come say hi! Prompts always welcome :)


	7. Day 7 - Support

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Athos is suffering from a bout of melancholy, he can always rely on his friends to be there for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of alcohol as an unhealthy coping mechanism cw

This time, when the melancholy hit, it was worse than usual. 

Days blended into nights, viewed through the dim light of a candle and a haze of alcohol. The shutters on the windows remained closed; the sunlight hurt his eyes and made his head spin. He drank until he could no longer stand, and then he would sleep. When he awoke, he would drink some more.

It had been a long time since he had fallen quite so far.

He couldn’t pinpoint the moment when it had started. In fact, things seemed to have been going rather well for the most part. Life had been busy, full of adventure, and finding himself with the young Gascon to look after had given him a new lease on life in recent months. D’Artagnan had latched onto him almost immediately, and now he felt like he wanted to be worthy of that admiration and trust.

So why did he suddenly feel so hopeless? Why had he found himself back in the same place he had been all those years ago? Why were the ghosts of his past tormenting him now, when he’d finally believed himself at least able to push them to the back of his mind? Of course, he’d never thought that he could be truly free of his demons, but he thought he’d started to learn how to survive. To live again, even with his memories hidden deep inside.

And so time dragged on, slowly and painfully, full of unbidden memories and condemnations from the ghosts in his mind. He had no sense of day or night, or how long had passed; he could only measure the degree of his self-imposed confinement by the growing collection of empty bottles strewn around the floor of his almost empty room. 

He found himself barely able to leave his bed, only doing so to relieve himself or to fetch more wine. The sleep he managed to get was restless and often left him more exhausted than he was before. When he was awake, he stared up at the ceiling, stared into nothingness, absently drank from his bottles until he was no longer aware of the crushing pain in his heart. 

The haze was only lifted when a sharp rap upon his door roused him somewhat from his stupor.

“Go away…” he groaned softly, the noise causing a throbbing pain in his head. He turned over and buried his face in the pillow, pulling his blanket over his head. 

Regardless of his wishes, the door creaked open, and there was a beat of heavy silence before he heard a soft huff of disapproval.

“Get up, Athos!”

The tone was sharp and demanding, but even Athos could recognise the concern that it masked. Captain Treville never had been able to completely hide his affection for the tormented soul.

“Captain…?” Athos grunted, rolling out of bed and rising on shaky legs. “What are you doing here?”

“No-one has heard from you in three days, Athos! We were worried!”

Athos frowned. Had it only been three days? It had felt like so much longer, and yet not long enough.

“And it looks like we were right to be,” Treville continued as he glanced around the small room. “Have you been neglecting to care for yourself?”

“It is a momentary sickness, Captain,” Athos responded, trying to shrug off the other man’s concern. “I shall be well again in time.”

The captain shook his head and released a soft sigh.

“Sit down, Athos.”

Athos obediently did so, perching himself on the edge of his bed, watching as Treville fetched a bucket and disappeared through the door, only to return moments later with the vessel full of water.

“Clean yourself up,” he told the Musketeer, before crossing the room to pull open the shutters. Athos hissed as the pain in his head returned and closed his eyes tightly. It took him a few moments of adjusting before he could open them again.

“When was the last time you ate?” Treville asked, beginning to search the cupboards for what Athos assumed was food.

“I don’t remember…” he grunted. “I think it was at the tavern with Porthos…”

“Goddamnit Athos! You need to take better care of your health!”

“Yes, sir… My apologies…”

Treville sighed and returned to crouch in front of Athos, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I only speak so because I worry for you and because I care for you,” he spoke softly now, eyes full of concern and barely concealed pain. “I am going to fetch you some food. Get yourself cleaned up whilst I am gone, and put on some fresh clothes if you can manage. Once you have eaten, you can rest.”

Athos watched the captain leave, and then proceeded to dunk his entire head into the bucket of water. The shock of cold against his skin pulled him back to some state of alertness, and he found that he did feel at least the slightest bit better for it. Pushing back his bedraggled mess of soaked hair from his face, he mustered up enough energy to change into a fresh shirt and breeches, and once again he felt just a little better.

~*~*~*~*~

True to his word, Treville returned not long after Athos had returned to his perch on the edge of the bed and presented the Musketeer with some bread and cheese. Athos tried to protest that he wasn’t hungry, but the smell of the food certainly had his stomach growling. His concern, however, was the nausea that accompanied it.

“Try to eat what you can,” Treville encouraged him. “Perhaps you will be unable to keep it down, but you shall either feel better for the eating, or for the purging.”

Athos hesitantly took the offering and ate, keeping his bites small and his pace slow. He was able to eat most of the portion and kept it down, though he did have to fight the occasional wave of nauseating sickness.

Treville nodded approvingly.

“Good,” he stated, very matter of fact. “Much better.” 

Athos returned the nod, even if slightly apprehensively. It was true; he did seem to feel better from the eating, his head wasn’t quite so fuzzy anymore. 

“I’m going to start a soup,” Treville told him, beginning to sort through the vegetables he’d brought. “You don’t need to bother with it. It’ll simmer for a few hours and Aramis will deal with it.”

“Aramis…?” Athos asked, the confusion heavy in his voice. “What do you mean ‘Aramis’…?”

“He’s coming over later,” Treville told him casually. “I can’t stay all day after all, and he volunteered to keep you company.”

“Oh, ok…” Athos murmured. “Keep an eye on me you mean…?”

“Athos…”

“No, it’s alright. I understand.”

He lay back down and let out a weary sigh. 

“Try to get some rest Athos. Some proper rest.”

Almost as if he had been awaiting permission, Athos instantly closed his eyes and fell into a light sleep. 

~*~*~*~*~

When he awoke again - he wasn’t sure how long it had been – Treville was nowhere to be found, but Porthos was sat in the corner, cleaning his pistols.

“Porthos…?”

A bright smile lit up Porthos’ face.

“Hey, you’re awake!” he greeted warmly. “Come and play some cards with me.”

Athos rolled his eyes but did as he was bid. He hadn’t thought that he was inclined to play trivial card games, but it turned out to be a rather welcome distraction. Porthos was a quiet companion, not asking any questions, not rambling on about nothing in particular. It was one of the things Athos appreciated most about him. He never pushed, never tried to force Athos into conversation, but he was a silent strength, a familiar comfort, even if they were just playing a few hands of marjolet.

“I’m sorry for disappearing without word…” Athos finally broke the silence as he slid a silver coin across the table to join Porthos’ pile of winnings. “Truly, I don’t know what happened. All of a sudden I was overcome by a terrible sadness, drowning in the weight of my sins…”

Porthos’ jovial demeanour instantly melted away and became a mask of concern. But he didn’t speak, he simply listened, waiting to give Athos a chance to speak again if he wished to do so.

“Sometimes, I find myself in such a melancholic state that I can do nothing, and I do not wish for company. But it has been some time since I have fallen so far and found myself so low…”

“Athos…”

Porthos reached across the table to place his hand atop his friend’s.

“It’s alright that you feel this way. You will find no judgement from me.”

Athos gave his hand a grateful squeeze and returned his attention to the cards.

~*~*~*~*~

They played for a few hours. Porthos didn’t push any further and Athos didn’t speak again. He was content to pass the time in companionable silence and just enjoy the presence of his friend. It briefly occurred to him how lucky he was to have people who cared enough to take the time to sit with him and keep him company during the difficult times. He was sure that not every man could claim to have such thoughtful companions. But was he deserving of them? He who could disappear for days and leave his friends with no word of warning. He who could allow his friends to feel such worry for his wellbeing when he was locked up in his own rooms with his bottles. Could he truly deserve to have companions so loyal as to give up their time and waste their worries on him and his selfishness?

But he expressed none of these fears. He played cards with Porthos until there was another knock on the door and Aramis came bursting into his room like a whirlwind. As Porthos took his leave and left Athos without a buffer, Aramis began to chatter excitedly, filling Athos’ head with stories of how he and D’Artagnan had gone to the tavern the previous night and found themselves in an altercation with five of the Cardinal’s Guards. Athos would’ve been so proud of D’Artagnan, he said. The boy was a natural fighter and had brought honour to the name of the Musketeers. 

Athos smiled despite himself, but that smile quickly faded into a frown as chatter turned to Aramis’ latest escapade with one of the queen’s favourite handmaidens. 

As Treville had promised, Aramis checked on the soup and, after adding a few herbs until he was satisfied, served a bowl to Athos along with another chunk of bread. As Athos ate, Aramis cleaned up all of the bottles that were strewn around and washed out soiled clothes and bedsheets. 

“You’ll find that a cleaner room leads to a clearer mind,” he explained when Athos tried to protest. “And it’s really no trouble. If it makes you feel even the slightest bit more… well, like yourself… I have no problem coming over and cleaning up once in a while.”

Instead of protesting further, Athos thanked him and helped to hang the sheets out to dry, Aramis talking the entire time, now about his long-standing affair with Marie de Chevreuse. As inane as Athos found Aramis’ ramblings, he also found that they made him smile. They distracted his mind and allowed him to focus on less serious things. It was just so like Aramis, to fill up every moment of silence with trivialities to distract from whatever was weighing on his friends’ minds. Combined with his cheery disposition and endless enthusiasm, it was difficult to not feel happier in his presence. 

So Athos allowed him to talk without voicing a single complaint. But when he finally decided to voice his own thoughts, the other man fell into silence and listened more intently than Athos thought he had ever done before. 

“Thank you… for everything…” he finally found himself whispering. “You didn’t have to come over here to keep me company, and you certainly didn’t have to clean everything up… But I really am grateful, and I’m sorry if I caused you any worry…”

Aramis just smiled and squeezed his shoulder. 

“We worry because we love you,” he told him. “What kind of friends would we be if we didn’t care about your wellbeing?”

~*~*~*~*~

Beginning to tire, as he often did around the outgoing Aramis, Athos decided to lay down in his bed, at which point Aramis decided to read to him for a while. The smooth, soothing voice of his friend had him drifting off into a pleasant restful state, and it seemed to be over all too soon when the arrival of D’Artagnan signalled another change in caretaker. 

The boy seemed awkward at first, standing in the doorway and rubbing his arm as he watched Aramis leave. A few moments passed before Athos heard movement and turned to see D’Artagnan approaching his bed and kneeling beside it.

“I was worried about you…” he whispered, taking Athos’ hand and dropping his forehead to rest against it. “Nobody could tell me what happened and…”

Athos felt a stab of guilt in his chest. D’Artagnan knew nothing of his penchant for misery and it seemed obvious now that he would have been concerned by this drastic change in routine. 

“I’m sorry, my friend,” he sighed. “It was selfish of me to disappear as I did, and to cause you such distress.”

D’Artagnan frowned and shook his head.

“No, that’s not what I meant!” the Gascon insisted. “But Porthos said that you have been plagued by sadness and… well… I just wish that you had been able to tell us. We would have tried to help you sooner.”

Athos blinked. D’Artagnan had only been a member of their little group for a few months; how could he be so invested in helping Athos with his issues?

“I… It is difficult for me to express, lad,” he sighed. “To tell those I care for that I am feeling such melancholia… I fear driving them away…”

“I’m not going anywhere!” D’Artagnan blurted without missing a beat. “I-I mean… Athos, you are the strongest, most resilient person that I know! But sometimes… Sometimes being strong means allowing yourself to be weak around your friends.”

Athos stared at him, unsure how to respond to an idea so foreign.

“Please, Athos, we want to be there for you, as you are always there for us. But we can’t do that if you don’t let us… I know it’s a difficult thing to do, but you deserve the love and kindness we want to offer. You don’t have to be alone. All I ask is that you try…”

D’Artagnan seemed so earnest in his pleas, and it tugged at something deep in Athos heart. 

“I-I’ll try…” he whispered, even if only to see the tension disappear from D’Artagnan’s shoulders. “I can’t promise that I’ll be able to completely open myself up to help, but I will try.”

D’Artagnan felt an instant relief at Athos’ words. 

“If it helps, back in Gascony, when I was sad or angry or frustrated, I used to practice my swords with my father. I didn’t have to think about anything. I could just release everything that I was feeling through my blade… Maybe… Well, maybe we could try it…”

“In the morning,” Athos agreed. “Right now, I just want to rest. Aramis can be rather draining when you’re not prepared for him.”

D’Artagnan tried and failed to suppress a laugh, knowing exactly what Athos had meant. Aramis always had so much energy, and D’Artagnan always slept well after spending a day with the charismatic Musketeer. 

“And you should rest too,” Athos continued, budging over to make room on the bed. “It must be getting late by now and I won’t have you sleeping on the floor. You might be on the night shift, but I won’t hear of you staying up to keep an eye on me.”

D’Artagnan mumbled a weak protest, even as he kicked off his boots and lay down next to Athos. It didn’t take him long to fall asleep, curled into Athos’ chest, arms around the older man’s waist, softly snoring in his ear. And as Athos watched the steady rise and fall of the boy’s chest, it struck him again how lucky he was to have such a committed and loyal group of friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that got long, oops!
> 
> Thanks for reading! It really means a lot to me :)
> 
> I'm capitaineathos on tumblr, come say hi! Prompts always welcome :)


	8. Day 8 - Abandoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever since Savoy, Aramis has feared being abandoned again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for clarification, the way that Aramis experiences panic in this story is based on my own personal experience and is not necessarily the same experience that others have. And the way that Athos reacts comes from things that help to ground me (physical touch, short sentences, commands etc. Even just the presence of a loved one does wonders for me a lot of the time). When it comes to panic, everyone is different, so this is just my part of the story I guess :)

When Aramis awoke, it was still dark. The thick copse of trees around him blocked any light that may have been given by the moon, and the fire, still crackling away, only provided a soft orange glow around a close proximity. 

The bullet wound in his shoulder throbbed painfully and he rolled onto the opposite side in an attempt to relieve any pressure on it. He had been vaguely aware of D’Artagnan dressing the shoulder before the loss of blood had finally reached his head. He’d been teaching the young Gascon what he knew about field medicine, and he had been unexpectedly receptive to the lessons. Now he would often watch carefully as Aramis treated various hurts and was eager to try the techniques himself under his teacher’s watchful eye.

Now more than ever, Aramis was grateful for sharing what he knew with the boy. Of course, Athos and Porthos were knowledgeable enough to patch up a wound well enough to keep their comrades alive until proper help could be found, but neither of them had the delicate touch of D’Artagnan, nor did they have the nimble fingers required to suture deep cuts. Ultimately, Aramis would much prefer to have the youngest of their group as his medic than either of his other friends. 

Taking a few moments to allow the ache in his shoulder to ease, he finally pushed himself into a seated position, leaning back heavily against a sturdy tree trunk. The movement caused a sharp pain to shoot through his wound, drawing a soft groan from his lips.

“Porthos…?” he called out softly. “Athos? D’Artagnan?”

None of his companions answered. Squinting through the darkness, Aramis couldn’t see any of them either. The horses also seemed to be missing, even his own, and he felt a cold terror settling in his gut.

They were… gone…?

Whilst he slept, his friends had left him. Abandoned him. Stranded him in the middle of the forest, wounded and without his mount. Left him scared and alone…

He could feel his breathing begin to quicken, panic soon making it difficult for him to catch a breath at all. His hands shook, and the shadows seemed to be closing in on him, confining him and suffocating him. His ragged breaths were occasionally interrupted by a bout of broken sobs, as he pulled his knees up to his chest and curled in on himself as tightly as he was able. Every noise seemed like a threat: every rustle of leaves was an animal waiting to pounce, every snap of a twig was an enemy coming to kill him whilst he was too weak to fight back. 

Why? Why did they leave him? Why did everyone always leave him…?

He could almost smell the acrid smoke in the air, hear the screams and the gunshots and the moans of dying men. He could see the look in Marsac’s eyes as they met his for the last time, as they met his just moments before he’d shed his uniform and fled the scene. Aramis’ dreams had been haunted by those eyes for months after he’d been brought home. He’d trusted Marsac, had thought that he was his closest friend for a time. He’d trusted Athos and Porthos and D’Artagnan too, but now they were gone, leaving him behind in the same way that Marsac had done. 

And Marsac had never come back.

He dropped his head to rest his forehead on his knees, body shaking violently as he fought to suppress his violent sobs. Ever since Savoy, he’d hated being alone. He’d spent so long wondering when this day would come, when he would be left alone again, and now it was finally here. 

But he could never have been truly prepared for it, and it still hurt more than the wound in his shoulder ever could.

He just wished he knew why nobody ever stayed. Why did he deserve to be abandoned? He tried so hard to be a good and loyal friend, but it never seemed to matter. His friends had still left.  
He heard soft footsteps approaching, but he didn’t even lift his head to see who might be coming. Perhaps it was a stranger, and they would just go away. Perhaps it was indeed an enemy, but he had neither the energy nor the willpower to care. If they killed him, so be it. It wasn’t like anyone would notice. Or care.

“Aramis…? Aramis, what’s wrong?”

He froze, the voice taking him by surprise. A voice that he had certainly not expected to hear.

“A-Athos…?” he whispered, finally lifting his head to see the leader of their little group, his arms full of firewood and a soft frown tugging at his lips. “Y-You came back…?”

“What kind of a question is that my friend? Where else would I go?”

Athos placed the wood down, threw a few extra sticks onto the fire, then came to kneel by Aramis’ side. 

“What has you so upset Aramis? Are you in pain?”

Aramis shook his head. It was true; he could barely feel the pain in his shoulder anymore, the sensation dulled by the fog of panic that had filled his head. 

“N-No, I… I-I thought…”

“Thought what?” Athos asked gently. “You can tell me.”

“I-I thought you were gone…” Aramis whispered, keeping his gaze focused on the ground at his feet. It briefly occurred to him that he wasn’t wearing his boots. Someone must have taken them off whilst he was asleep. He hadn’t seen them when he’d woken up. He had to find them and…

“Aramis.”

The voice was still gentle, but slightly commanding, drawing his attention away from the hole that he’d now noticed in his sock. Athos’ finger came under his chin and drew his face up until his eyes met those of his friend.

“Listen to me.”

He nodded dumbly. Short sentences. He could focus on them. Just focus on Athos. Athos wasn’t gone. Athos was here. Focus on that. He wasn’t alone. They hadn’t abandoned him. Athos had come back.

“None of us are going anywhere,” Athos told him, slowly and deliberately. “None of us will leave you. We will never, ever leave you.”

A beat passed between them, and then Aramis was throwing himself into Athos’ arms, allowing himself to break down into sobs once more. But this time, they were more a sign of relief than fear. 

It took Athos a moment to respond, but he wrapped his arms around the other man and soothingly rubbed his back until the sobs began to quieten. 

“It’s alright…” Athos murmured. “It’s alright now. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

“I was so frightened…” Aramis admitted, almost choking on the words as he fought to draw in gasping breaths. “I-I thought… just like Marsac…”

Athos frowned, his arms tightening around his friend.

“I shouldn’t have left you here alone,” he sighed. “It was my fault. The horses took fright and Porthos and D’Artagnan had to make chase. I was supposed to be watching over you, but the fire looked so close to dying and we had no kindling left, so I… I knew I would not be far, nor would I stay away for any duration of time, so I failed to realise how it might look if you awoke in the meantime.”

He gently repositioned them so that he now sat against the tree and Aramis could remain curled against his chest.

“What Marsac did was unforgiveable… Leaving you alone out there like that, especially when you were so badly wounded… We would never…”

“It’s not that I don’t want to trust you…” Aramis mumbled softly. “But I trusted Marsac once, and…”

“I understand,” Athos assured him. “And we let you down tonight. But I promise you, Aramis, that we will not do so again. Only through our actions can we show you that we are worthy of your trust, and I will strive to make you see it, no matter how long it may take. You are our brother, our dearest friend, and we love you. You have nothing to fear, for we will always be by your side.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! It really means so much to me :)
> 
> I'm capitaineathos on tumblr, come say hi! Prompts always welcome :)


	9. Day 9 - "Take me instead"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos always was a little too self-sacrificing when it came to D'Artagnan.

It was indeed fortunate that he had decided to visit D’Artagnan that day. Since the Gascon had arrived in Paris, Athos had found himself frequenting the young man’s rooms. Whether it be to break their fast together, to sup and drink together, or just to talk and pass the time in each other’s company, it had become a regular occurrence, and at times Athos felt that he was spending more time at D’Artagnan’s lodgings than his own.

But this night, he knew that something was wrong as soon as he arrived at the house of Monsieur Bonacieux. The smile that Madame Constance gave him when he tipped his hat to her was strained, so he paused at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for her to approach him.

“Athos,” she greeted, barely concealing the worry in her tone. “D’Artagnan has some… visitors…”

“I shall join them, Madame,” he replied. “Are there many?” 

It was clear that Constance didn’t trust whoever had come to visit the boy, and it put Athos instantly on alert. 

“Four of them. They arrived just ahead of you.”

The Musketeer nodded his thanks and turned to climb the stairs to D’Artagnan’s rooms. 

As it turned out, he’d arrived not a moment too soon. 

Just as he placed his hand on the doorknob, the door itself was yanked open and Athos found himself face to face with D’Artagnan, arms bound behind his back and a hood of rough sackcloth over his head. He was surrounded by four masked men, who stared at Athos in shock. They obviously hadn’t expected anyone to visit their captive tonight.

One of the masked men cursed and dragged D’Artagnan back inside the room. Athos followed, drawing his sword as he moved.

“Drop the sword or we shoot him!”

Athos knew that he didn’t have much choice; there were four of them, all with pistols trained on the helpless cadet. Even Athos wasn’t quick enough to stop them all. 

He placed his blade on the floor at his feet and immediately felt his own arms being yanked behind his back.

“Tie him up so he can’t follow us!”

“What do you want with the boy?!” Athos demanded, instinctively struggling against the hands that restrained him. 

One of the men scoffed.

“Treville’s youngest and most promising? He’s sure to listen to our demands if he wants to see him safe and well ever again.”

Athos felt his heart hammering in his chest. He couldn’t let them take D’Artagnan. Of course, Treville would never abandon any of his men, but Athos just couldn’t take the chance that he would be hurt. Or what if the demands were impossible for Treville to give? A search party would be organised, the Inseparables wouldn’t rest until their youngest was home, but what if something went wrong?

He had to do something.

“Take me instead!” he blurted out, not even taking the time to think about the implication of his words. “Let the boy go and take me instead!”

“Athos, no!”

D’Artagnan’s words were muffled behind the sackcloth and Athos just ignored him.

“He isn’t even a Musketeer,” he continued, trying to think of anything that might convince them to listen to his point of view. “But me? I’m Treville’s right hand man, his confidante. You’ll get greater leverage out of me, I’m sure.”

Something in the back of his mind told him that admitting to such a thing wasn’t exactly his smartest plan, but it worked. He watched as the kidnappers glanced at each other, their eyes glistening with greed. 

“You’re very convincing, Musketeer,” one of them laughed. “I think I like your idea better.”

The sack was pulled free of D’Artagnan’s head and he fixed his mentor with a look of horrified indignance.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

“It’ll be fine,” Athos assured him calmly. “Go to Aramis. Stay with him tonight.”

“But Athos…!”

“I’ll see you soon,” the older Musketeer insisted, cutting D’Artagnan off in his desperation to say something before the sack came down over his eyes and he was plunged into darkness. 

He stumbled along as he was dragged down the stairs and out to a waiting carriage. What was going to happen to him now, he had no idea. But he had no regrets. D’Artagnan would find Aramis and Porthos, and they would figure it out. They would come to save him, he was certain of it. 

But no matter what the future held, as long as his friends were safe, he could be at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet, this one XD
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, it means the world to me! :)
> 
> I'm capitaineathos on tumblr, come say hi! Prompts always welcome :)


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